Why Being ‘Strong’ Isn’t Always a Compliment?

People love to call you strong when they see you surviving something heavy.

They mean it as a compliment, the kind that’s supposed to make you feel proud of yourself. But sometimes, hearing “You’re so strong” doesn’t feel like praise at all. It feels like a reminder that you went through something you never wanted to face in the first place.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to become “a strong person.” It wasn’t part of my personality plan or some inspirational movie plot. It happened because life pushed me into a corner I couldn’t escape from.

Because people I loved made choices that ripped my reality apart.

Because I was put in situations where the only options were to break completely or force myself to stand up, even when I was falling apart inside.

The truth is, being called strong often means you’ve been through hell and somehow came out the other side. But nobody sees the nights you couldn’t sleep because your mind was replaying every argument, every tear, every “what if.” They don’t see the way you sat in silence, trying to figure out how the people who were supposed to protect you became the reason you felt trapped. They don’t feel the heaviness of pretending to be okay, so no one asks more questions.

And here’s the part they really don’t get: Strength is not just about getting through something. It’s about living with the aftermath, the way the fear, the anger, and the hurt still sit in your body long after the moment has passed.

It’s walking into a room and feeling your stomach twist because it smells like that day. It’s hearing a certain tone in someone’s voice and suddenly being pulled back into a memory you wish you could erase. It’s smiling during family conversations while swallowing the urge to scream.

Sometimes, people use “You’re so strong” as a way to avoid looking too closely. Because if you seem strong, they don’t have to acknowledge how much pain you have actually been in. It’s easier for them to believe you’ve “moved on” than to sit with the fact that you’ve been carrying something so heavy for so long.

So yes, I survived. But I didn’t choose to be strong. I had no other option. And that’s not the same thing as wanting it.

Some people think the hardest part was the moment it all happened. They are wrong. The hardest part is waking up every day after, carrying the same memories in the same body, and learning how to exist without letting them swallow you whole. I’m still figuring that part out. Maybe that’s what I will write about next, not the survival, but the quiet, messy, in-between part that nobody warns you about.